ouse upon a thorn
in a neighboring tree, and which I was watching. I was first advised of
the owl's presence by seeing him approaching swiftly on silent, level
wing. The shrike did not see him till the owl was almost within the
branches. He then dropped his game, and darted back into the thick
cover, uttering a loud, discordant squawk, as one would say, "Scat!
scat! scat!" The owl alighted, and was, perhaps, looking about him for
the shrike's impaled game, when I drew near. On seeing me, he reversed
his movement precipitately, flew straight back to the old tree, and
alighted in the entrance to the cavity. As I approached, he did not so
much seem to move as to diminish in size, like an object dwindling in
the distance; he depressed his plumage, and, with his eye fixed upon me,
began slowly to back and sidle into his retreat till he faded from my
sight. The shrike wiped his beak upon the branches, cast an eye down at
me and at his lost mouse, and then flew away.

A few nights afterward, as I passed that way, I saw the little owl again
sitting in his doorway, waiting for the twilight to deepen, and
undisturbed by the passers-by; but when I paused to observe him, he saw
that he was discovered, and he slunk back into his den as on the former
occasion. Ever since, while going that way, I have been on the lookout
for him. Dozens of teams and foot-passengers pass him late in the day,
but he regards them not, nor they him. When I come along and pause to
salute him, he opens his eyes a little wider, and, appearing to
recognize me, quickly shrinks and fades into the background of his door
in a very weird and curious manner. When he is not at his outlook, or
when he is, it requires the best powers of the eye to decide the point,
as the empty cavity itself is almost an exact image of him. If the whole
thing had been carefully studied, it could not have answered its purpose
better. The owl stands quite perpendicular, presenting a front of light
mottled gray; the eyes are closed to a mere slit, the ear-feathers
depressed, the beak buried in the plumage, and the whole attitude is one
of silent, motionless waiting and observation. If a mouse should be seen
crossing the highway, or scudding over any exposed part of the snowy
surface in the twilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down upon it. I
think the owl has learned to distinguish me from the rest of the
passers-by; at least, when I stop before him, and he sees himself
observed, he b